


When Will This Storm End

by Daximed



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Scenting, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-21 15:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7393276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daximed/pseuds/Daximed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ON HIATUS DURING THE SCHOOL QUARTER</p><p>All the gunslingers and fast talkers in old westerns were Alphas, hell, or at least Betas. They were heroes, and everyone knew it with just one damn look.<br/>Omegas didn't have any place in a shootout.<br/> </p><p>Or: Boy hides from himself and overcompensates to make up for it, boy gets his act together and joins something bigger than himself, boy meets another boy in the process, boy still hates himself but a little less.<br/>(tags will update with new chapters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Omega

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting a multi-chapter fic, so I'm throwing the first chapter up to get a feel for it (and see if I even have an audience to continue lol)
> 
> And because I love world building more than writing for the majority of the time, here are the "rules" I've set in place for how everything works:
> 
> -Betas take up about 70% of the human population, with alphas and omegas splitting the remaining 30% evenly. Omnics have no concept of a/b/o orientation.  
> -A/b/o equality was (mostly) achieved pre-omnic crisis. Old fashioned families or people further removed from the world still uphold strict standards.  
> -Alphas/Omegas are only "out" on medical emergency records. They can choose whether to make their orientation public or not (this didn't used to be the case), but it's not uncommon for someone's orientation to be outed.  
> -Naturally, alphas experience rut on average about once a year, whereas an Omega will go into heat 4 times a year.  
> -Heat suppressants come in both injection and pill form. Pills are taken daily, injections monthly. Rut suppressant is only available as an injection, and is taken once a year.  
> -Scent blockers come in 3 month injections, but others can use lotions/colognes/perfumes to disguise themselves along with patches applied to "hot spots" on the skin (inner wrist and collarbones typically). Both alphas and omegas can seek out scent blockers.  
> -It's considered proper manners for alphas and omegas to use some form of scent blocker, but it's not required in most parts of the world.

Everyone always seemed to tell these whimsical tales about what it was like when you presented. ‘ _It’s a rite_ _to adulthood, a part of becoming who you were always meant to be!’_ the flimsy fliers that had been passed around in 5th grade health class had proclaimed. When a human body reaches its peak of puberty, it will present as an Alpha or an Omega. In the case of no presentation, you’re classified as a Beta, which happen to take up the majority of the population. Uncomfortable (and embarrassing) for both parties, sure, but rutting and heat are just the beginning of something wonderful. What those incredibly dated, required health class videos _don’t_ tell you is that it will happen when you’re 17 and in the middle of a history exam. As is the case of one Jesse McCree (who, up to this moment was quite certain he was a beta, thank you kindly). As his shitty luck would have it, that is _specifically_ when his body chose to go into its first heat.

 

The day had started just like any other. No, it was a good day if he was being honest with himself. Jesse had woken up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, bounding out of his room with an energy like something he’d had on Christmas morning as a child. He was nearly out of the Gable front house, but not before his Ma could give him a quick peck to one of his freckled cheeks, and a fond ruffle to the mop of auburn locks on his head.  “I swear Jesse, you’re growin’ like a weed these days. Must be somethin’ in the water, huh boy,” she hummed, now having to look up at her little boy just that couple of extra inches. She shooed him out with concerns of being late to his classes, and that was that. That was this morning, when the southwestern sun had beamed down on his skin and warmed his soul. This morning, when he had felt confident enough about the world history exam because he’d actually bothered to flip through the (frankly intimidating) tome of a textbook, rather than just to skimming over the pictures. This morning, when he was most definitely a beta.

 

The day started to sour during 6th period Chemistry. The usual rows of fluorescent lights lining the ceiling buzzed powerfully, drawing Jesse’s attention like never before. He breathed harshly through his nose once, twice, and exhaled. It was a chemistry lab, for hell’s sake.

 

_Probably caught a whiff of something from the supply closet, settle yourself McCree._

 

His stubborn thinking was able to hold strong enough to relax him, besides the fact that today’s class assignment was strictly taking notes. They hadn’t so much as glanced at a bunsen burner, let alone bring anything out, but facts couldn’t deter him now. Jesse settled back into some semblance of focus until the chirped _brrring_ of the school’s bell system chimed to alert the end of the class period. The sounds of chattering students and scrapping desk chairs muffled their poor teacher’s bumbling of a homework assignment, but Jesse could pick it apart crystal clear; down to the slight lisp on the older woman’s voice. It was… unsettling to say the least. He tried not to dwell on his new found hearing abilities, instead stuffing his notebook and worksheets under his arm as he practically bolted from the room.

 

Jesse was immediately assaulted by the hallway’s buzz of passing conversations and shoddy lockers smacking closed. The noises prodded at him like pins and needles, crawling up the back of his arms and neck where a light sheen of sweat had begun to form.

 

_Damn chemistry fumes, if this is some excuse for my superpower origin story I’m calling bullshit._

 

If he could just make it to his next class, he’d give himself an easy off for the day. That history exam counted for a good chunk of his final grade, and his Ma would be madder than a bobcat caught in a piss fire if she found out he’d been playing hooky during it.

Always easier said than done, the move from one class to another was like something between slogging through quicksand and slicking across a freshly waxed roller rink. His head was spinning by the time he planted himself in his history class. He had a few spare minutes to take stock of whatever the fuck was up with his body as the rest of the class trickled their way into the room.

 

His stomach had started to churn now that he wasn’t darting through the hallway. Did he eat something foul for lunch?

 _No more foul than the usual,_ his mind supplied as he swiped the back of his hand across his forehead in an attempt to rid himself of the perspiration there. When had the room gotten so hot?

 

_I’m right out sweatin’ like a whore in church._

 

Jesse could barely bring himself back from his thoughts to focus enough and shakily raise his hand while attendance was called; his other hand ran anxiously through his dampening hair. This was getting out of hand, and fast.  
  
Time felt like it was crawling at a snail’s pace and straight up racing for Jesse all at once. When had the kid in front of him turned to hand a paper to him?

 

 _Shit, the test._  

 

He scrambled for a pencil, he just had to finish this test and then this nightmare would be over…

 _For fuck’s sake,_ his teeth clenched, realizing that in his dumbass rush to get of out chemistry he lost his pencil. _Well ain’t that just peachy._

 

He had to steady himself before he reached up to tap the girl in front of him for a loaner, but stopped short. Her ponytail swayed behind her head, a few locks falling loose, and _sweet mercy_ , but she smelled like something sent straight from heaven. As if on cue, the girl’s back went ramrod straight.

 

 _Shit, did I say something now? If I’m gonna lose my damn mind can’t I keep it to myself?_ He swallowed hard, watching her shoulders tense.

 

Carrie, that was her name, turned to face Jesse, her face scrunched up something fierce. A delicately manicured hand pinched over her nose as she took in the state of him.

 

_Hold up, does she smell that, too? Maybe I ain’t three hens short of a chicken coop._

 

She mumbled something under her hand, eyes darting left and right before they landed back on him with a conflicted sort of grimace.

 

“You’re gonna have to speak up some, sweetheart,” was Jesse’s hushed reply, impressed he only slurred the sentence a little. He attempted to discreetly reposition his hips in his seat in a way that definitely wasn’t a squirm.

 

“You should really be going to the nurse’s office, Jesse. It’s not fair to the rest of us. Especially people like me,” she repeated, her eyes bore him down just a little harder this time.

 

 _Fair to the rest of us? What in the Sam Hill was she shooting off about?_ Jesse gritted his teeth, estimating he was currently entering what must have been at least the 5 th layer of hell by now. And he was about to tell Miss Carrie here exactly that when he felt what could have only been described as a splitting sensation somewhere near his crotch.

 

The next few seconds screeched to a grinding halt while a couple of things happened all at once: First, either he was dying, or someone slipped something strong into his food at lunch because the room grew fuzzy around the corners of his vision. Next, Carrie looked like she must have been saying something else, but sounds reached him muffled through a field of cotton. Then, he felt compelled to take in a few heaving gulps of air as sweat was now dripping from his temples that landed heavily on his blank history test, his body shook like a damn screen door in a hurricane. And lastly--the pièce de résistance of Jesse McCree’s teenage nightmare--he must have pissed himself because something wet was seeping through his dark jeans. It clung to his boxer briefs and dribbled right down the inside of his leg. Pupils blown and tinged with panic, he met Carrie’s now equally startled gaze, and _bless his fucking heart_ but did he just want to lunge across the sad excuse for a school desk he now trembled in to bury his head in her neck. No, he wanted _her_ to lunge, to be _pinned_ between her body and his seat. To feel her mouth against his collarbone, to be _grabbed_ and flat out _manhandled_ until they’d be sprawled on the cool tile of his history classroom.

 

It was with that final, vivid thought that Jesse McCree, self-proclaimed smooth talker with an even temper and even stronger hold on his more primal instincts, came in his pants with a strangled moan that didn’t even sound like his own voice to his ears.

 

Jesse vaguely heard his teacher shouting his name once, twice with more conviction, before the world tipped sideways and he was slipping out of his seat; Carrie’s shocked, bright-red face buzzing in his field of vision. He retained enough common sense during this whole ordeal to at least brace himself on his hands before impact with the dusty tile floor. He registered a commotion above him, people hopping up out of their seats and desks screeching to the side as he felt the vibration more than heard thunderous footsteps pound toward him. Before he could so much as take another sharp gulp of air, Jesse was being hauled up and roughly thrown over someone’s shoulder. His captor, who he eventually came to process was his history teacher, booked the two of them out of the room and down the hall at such speeds that Jesse almost had to shout for a mandatory pit stop in fear that the roiling in his stomach would prove to come up. He tried to center himself with a handful of sucked in heaves of air, and before he knew it he was being unceremoniously deposited on a cot in the nurse’s office. The cot was located in a makeshift supply closet, the door to which closed before his vision could so much as swim hazily to access his new environment.

 

Jesse could pick apart voices outside, his history teacher’s sharp husk of a voice speaking hastily with the softer lits of the school nurse. Everything is generally garbled and slurred, but he could make out “call his parents” and “presenting” and that’s when it smacked him in the face like a damn ten wheeler.

  
The dingy room he’s cramped in is specifically used for kids that have the unfortunate pleasure of starting their rut or heat at school, and, if his damp crotch and vivid memory of Carrie, the newly-presented-alpha-of-two-months, meant anything, he’d wager he was here for the latter.

_And it was such a nice day._


	2. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then the door was closed and he was finally, blissfully, alone. If he was being honest with himself that was the opposite of what his body wanted, but he’d drink roadrunner piss before admitting that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from that, I am absolutely FLOORED by the attention this fic has received! I am so grateful to every kudo, bookmark, and comment you've left me! I'm ecstatic to continue, and I'm so happy to have so many of you along for the ride!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:  
> -General warnings that come with "dancing with yourself" AKA the first heat

“First one’s always the worst, baby,” came the lulling voice of his Ma as she helped Jesse back into their house. She had him swaddled up in a thick, woven blanket that smelled like family and safety, urging him forward as he gripped her shoulder for support. His familiar childhood home swam hazily before his strained eyes, the lights much too bright and the smell of simmering peppercorn chili his Ma had in the old crock pot making him nauseous. If he was in the 5th layer of hell before, he was nearing the 6th now.

“You ain’t dead yet boy, wait for the third day for that one,” Ma chuckled heartily at what he must have voiced aloud as she rubbed his back through the heavy blanket. “Might be somethin’ a little different for you, baby.”

“Is that right?” Jesse grit out on a gasp, his easy grin looking more like a grimace on his paling, splotchy face. He always knew there was a chance, however small, that he’d end up something other than a beta. His Ma was an alpha, after all. For once in his life Jesse wished he’d inherited something from his no good scoundrel of a father (rest his soul).

The pair reached the end of the hallway, Ma nudging the door to his bedroom open with a muted creak. He could make out the thinly veiled grunt of annoyance at the state of his room, but it was left at that. This really was some kind of ass backwards day.

She sat him down on his unmade bed, mattress springs creaking under his weight. Just as he was settling in, he felt more than smelled the sharp bite of command his Ma would radiate when she wanted his attention. His Ma wasn’t one to beat around the bush for anything, and if her fixed stare and crossed arms were anything to go by, he was about to listen to something frightfully embarrassing.

“Now listen here while I still got ya’ somewhat lucid, boy,” she started off, hands moving to sit on her hips like she wasn’t about to give her 17 year old son a sex talk. “I’m not about lyin’ to ya’, so this here next few days is gonna be somethin’ rough. It ain’t no rut, but it’s just as bad as I understand it. I’ll be bringin’ in a pitcher a water and some granola in a minute, and damn near all of our towels. When I’ve got ya’ situated, I’ll go out to the store and pick up some things to take the edge off. You need somethin’? You call for me. I don’t care how damn dumb it is, you call me,” she finished with a tapered off sigh, her shoulders deflating a bit, and turned swiftly on her heels.

Jesse registered his Ma bustling in and out of the room a handful of times before she was pushing the sweat-damp hair from his forehead, and replacing the spot with a soft kiss. Then the door was closed and he was finally, blissfully, alone. If he was being honest with himself that was the opposite of what his body wanted, but he’d drink roadrunner piss before admitting that.

His skin felt like it had grown two sizes too small. He felt so oversensitive that the light scratching from the old blanket that had once been a comfort wrapped snug on his shoulders felt like a straightjacket. Jesse wrestled his way out of its tight embrace without a second thought. He felt compelled to shuck his t-shirt in the process, the soft cotton having had absorbed a good portion of sweat already. His room was dark and the air was stale, but _sweet baby Jesus_ did it feel good on his skin. He fumbled blindly for his belt buckle and pulled it away enough that he had access to his fly. It was a quick slip of the wrist to do away with the zipper, wiggling out of his soaked jeans another problem entirely.

_Shit, boots._

His disorientation hadn’t faded nearly enough by the time he jerked forward to grab for his shoes, which landed him head over heels on his bedroom floor. He tasted the tang of copper from what was probably a busted lip, putting it out of mind for the moment because he was free of his shoes at last. He felt like a damn idiot wrestling with his jeans, dragging off his underwear too in one go, but his blundering proved fruitful when he was finally, _mercifully_ , stark naked.

Jesse groaned at the sight of himself, crotch slicked wet and the head of his cock practically dribbling with pre-cum. He hadn’t even touched himself before he was coming again, streaking his chest with a pitiful excuse for a moan. His dick still stood red and proud against his stomach, climax ignored entirely.

_At this rate I’ll be dead by the end of the night. How the hell is this supposed to last more than a day?_

He stood, feeling something akin to a newborn foal, with shaking legs. He had to pause to steady himself against his bedframe, room swerving in his peripheral.

_Get a hold of yourself, McCree. Breathe._

He grappled for the water pitcher on his nightstand only briefly, holding the base firmly between his palms so his blurred vision could focus on the water sloshing from side to side. It was by far easier to forgo the chipped mug his Ma set out in exchange for tipping his head back to drink straight from the source. Droplets that escaped his mouth splashed off his overheated skin, the contrast of temperature causing his body to buzz pleasantly. Pitcher significantly lighter and heartbeat thrumming loudly behind his ears, the water was set down as Jesse’s strained legs finally let out under him. He landed roughly on his bed with a grunt. His breath came out ragged and in sharp huffs that made his throat tense uncomfortably. His knees were bent, heels digging sharply into the worn fabric of his bedsheets when a fresh wave of fire broiled just below his abdomen. Chills shoot up and around the backs of his ears and _god damn_ he was in it again. Instinctively, his jaw clenched.

He lifted one hand with a twitch. Blunt nails pressed sharply into the meat of his left thigh and Jesse could have sworn the sensation set of crackles of fireworks behind his eyelids; sharp smatterings of yellow and orange hues popping in delight. He tasted the sharp buzz that came from standing too close to a livewire on the roof of his mouth, blood humming out a song he didn’t know. Jesse clicked his tongue in response, swiping the pad of his right thumb over a dusty nipple and watched it pebble.

 _Just let yourself have it. Come on._ Something husked in the back of his mind.

It didn’t sound like him.

His left hand’s purchase drifted, nails scratching so good _so good_ , slipping down, under-

_So damn good._

His palm kneaded into the pliant flesh of his ass, breath hitching as the dusting of hairs on his forearms prickled and stood on edge.

_COME ON._

The drag from his chest down his abdomen was tortuous, blood roaring in his ears. It was screaming at him, begging him to go faster. To _touch_. To _give in_.

_PLEASE._

The wetness he was met with along the cleft of his ass only spurred him on, the slick slide of his searching fingers finding their mark with ease. He didn’t hesitate to stuff two fingers knuckle deep into himself, his hole greedily sucking them in.

 _So much for prep._ His mind supplied hazily, body singing out a chorus of finally _finally_.

Digits thrust lazily in and out, in and out, while his left hand spread his ass open eagerly. Another finger joined the pair without pause; his body arched enthusiastically when there wasn’t even so much as a burn from the stretch.

_Just like that._

A gasp erupted between rasping pants as he crooked his fingers with a twist of his wrist. Skin snapped and jolted, toes curling into the mattress and voice rumbling low in his chest as his cock jerked and released over his too hot stomach. The fog cleared from Jesse’s vision momentarily, a happy murmur vibrating along his skin and tickling at his ears.

He had all of eleven minutes to recover before it started up again.


	3. Deadlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deadlock Rebels were a gang of misfits with motorbikes and enough firepower to put the armed forces to shame. Some members were ex-cons, some were ex-military, and some just wound up there like Jesse had. Nobody ever asked about your past though. It was too dangerous in this business to give up much information about yourself, but they made do.
> 
> If you successfully completed one cargo run and were deemed to be “worthy” of the company, they’d give you a name within the week. Crow, Banshee, Texas, Diablo, Pixie; they all had a story. Stitches, an older gentleman with a lazy eye and a mean right hook, would needle your alias into the back of a jacket to be worn with pride. The names were like a shield, a badge of honor. They protected you just like the gang did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying about McCree's past, it's just Deadlock in my eye - The entire map of Route 66 is in my cornea.
> 
> Also: As I'm trucking through this fic, I keep blindsiding myself at how LONG it really will be until we meet Hanzo. This fic started off as being very McCree-centric, and I'm going to follow through with those plans. Sorry in advance to anyone hoping for some cute romance right off the bat, but it'll be worth the wait!
> 
> As always your kudos, comments, and bookmarks are a constant positive source to me! Thank you so much to everyone that's taken the time to read this fic!
> 
> (I keep switching the warning back and forth between M and E because I honestly have no clue what the difference is, hah my bad)

He started taking heat suppressants, one pill by mouth every morning. The thought of using an injection suppressant brought back too many memories of his Ma wincing when she would have to take hers; the needles looked like something out of a horror film to a child. Alphas weren’t as lucky when it came to suppressing a rut. They didn’t have the option to take medication.

The scent blockers came next; small tawny patches slapped near his collarbones, the pulse point at his wrist. They weren’t required where he lived, but some families preferred to have their bodies be as nature intended, so they’d say. “It’s uncivilized s’what it is,” Ma had huffed, briskly prepping guacamole in their kitchen when the conversation had come up. Her lip pulled up in a sneer, but it could have been from the onion she had just finished dicing. “S’like they’re walkin’ around with their damn dicks out.” The sentence was accentuated with the sharp crunch of Ma slapping the width of her knife against the countertop to smash a clove of garlic. “Pass me the cayenne, baby.”

Life went on. It wasn’t long before he was graduating high school, albeit barely. His grades picked up when people at school starting looking at him different; trying to scent him, make a damn fool of him. It was all he needed to push his struggling GPA high enough to get out as fast as he could. He didn’t dare look back.

He picked up odd jobs. Most of them were far enough out of town that nobody would know who he was, or what he was. Word travelled too fast in the middle of nowhere, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around for Alpha suitors to show up on his Ma’s doorstep (she’d already chased the first one off with a broom, disgusted that people still had the gumption to do that in this day and age).

But life never could seem to give McCree a break, nor a decent job he could write home to Ma about. The work he got roped into was easy enough at a glance. Standard manual labor; move a large stockpile of unmarked cargo from point A to point B. The cargo itself was another story. With the Omnic Crisis still very much prevalent across every major news outlet, what was more American than to take matters of “protection” into your own hands? Illegally smuggled weaponry and military grade hardware didn’t have the same sort of patriotic ring to it, anyway. Somebody had to be the one to do the dirty work. That’s what he had told himself when it started.

The Deadlock Rebels were a gang of misfits with motorbikes and enough firepower to put the armed forces to shame. Some members were ex-cons, some were ex-military, and some just wound up there like Jesse had. Nobody ever asked about your past though. It was too dangerous in this business to give up much information about yourself, but they made do.

If you successfully completed one cargo run and were deemed to be “worthy” of the company, they’d give you a name within the week. Crow, Banshee, Texas, Diablo, Pixie; they all had a story. Stitches, an older gentleman with a lazy eye and a mean right hook, would needle your alias into the back of a jacket to be worn with pride. The names were like a shield, a badge of honor. They protected you just like the gang did.

The High Side was a dusty old saloon the company had claimed as their base of operations. It looked like something straight out of a 19th century Wild West movie, to Jesse’s delight. He always did have an affinity for outdated cowboy slang. “Better ta’ have a front to fall back on when the feds show up,” the bartender, Doc, had grunted, barely glancing his way between buffing glasses on Jesse’s first visit. His head was shaved clean, but the blonde bushy mustache and goatee combo more than made up for it. “Easier ta’ have someplace safe than turnin’ tail in the thick of it.”

The place didn’t see much traffic other than the gang, but they were never short on people. On the average night, it was difficult to navigate the floor, let alone hear the twang of the ancient jukebox above the din of shouts and laughter that filled the building. Rebel, a slight girl with a shock of vibrant red hair styled in a trendy bob, would usually try to get Jesse in on the most recent betting pool that usually involved Grim, a loud boorish man with a stylized skull tattooed on his chest.

“My money’s on Grim to win every round of cards tonight, but to crack when he goes in for a double down on the last round. What you thinkin’, niño?”

“Niño, Grim’s running late with the booze run. Sparks thinks it’s a flat tire, but I’m gunning for a roadside brawl. You wanna go in on half? I’ll split the winnings with ya’.”

“Oi, niño! What’d you want to bet Grim’s going to wrestle someone before the end of the night? I’ve got $50 on Checkers.”

True to her name, Angel would typically come to his aid at this point, one of her inked arms weaving around his waist and her airy laugh filling his ears as she waved Rebel’s protests off. Most members warmed up to Jesse immediately. It wasn’t often they had a member so young join the rank and file. Everyone had their fair share of stories they’d revel in sharing with “the kid” between rounds of whisky and hazy clouds of cigar smoke.

The Kid, that’s what they called him. Sometimes he would catch Stitches eyeing him up, a crumpled leather jacket spread neatly in his lap; a shiver of adrenaline coursed up his spine every time he thought about it, when he dared to sneak a glance at that silver embroidery. The Kid.

_Their Kid._

Their… Beta.

That was the best part about Deadlock’s unspoken rule when it came to backstories. Nobody gave two shits about what medication he was on. What patches were on his wrists. And if someone happened to see the tan fabric on Jesse’s collarbone when he would throw his head back in laughter, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing, they didn’t mention it. Maybe the few that did notice assumed he was an Alpha. He had grown into his awkward, gangly limbs steadily since graduation, after all.

“Strappin’ young man,” his Ma had called him, with a thin dusting of hair on his chest and a smattering of scruff that sat sharply on his jawline. She told him the beaten up hand-me-down of a Stetson hat he’d found in their attic gave him some southern charm she hadn’t seen since before the world turned upside down. Then she’d cuffed him affectionately on the ear before he could let it go to his head.

_Ma._

Jesse didn’t see her much these days, and some sick, selfish part of him wanted to keep it that way. Not because he didn’t love her to bits, no, of course not. It more had to do with the fact that since he’d chosen this new path of his, this path of lies and bullets and close calls, he didn’t know how much of her Jesse, her baby boy, was left in him. He was still a kid, sure, but he wasn’t her kid. He was The Kid.

_Their Kid._

Jesse was barely 19, and he slept with switchblade under his pillowed arms. He’d learned early on it was the best plan of attack when a shipment called for a secure transportation over the span of a handful of days. He’d refuse to enter a room first, didn’t like it when he wasn’t walking behind everyone in a huddle of people. It was easier to size the crowd up that way. _A vantage point._ He smelled vaguely of ash and the tang of something metallic no matter how harshly he’d scrub his skin when he bathed. And there was always the grit of dirt and dried blood under his nailbeds (he’d know, seeing as it had become a habit to pick at them when he didn’t have something better to do with his hands).

Now, there were some mannerisms of his that were well and truly Jesse. At the end of the day, Deadlock couldn’t take any credit for his quick wit. McCree had always been a sweet-talker; dancing smoothly woven sentences this way and that was child’s play. It made a job with questionable morals a hell of a lot easier when you could talk yourself out of a tight bind with ease. He’d managed to weasel his way out and around hard spots more times than he could count, and that was just if he was talking about last week. _Silver tongued_ , they’d call him. Told him he had a gift; told him people with gifts got promotions. People with gifts got to speak with _The Boss._

It had begun as a normal enough night. McCree had just completed a drop off transportation gig. The job had been a little riskier than usual, but had gone off without a hitch. His small company was comprised of Ace, a twitchy fella with a similar trigger finger, Missy, an ex-marine with a cybernetic left leg and the voice of a songbird, and Jesse himself. He had been finishing up a round of darts with the two back at The High Side, the latter of which smugly chirping about having his ass handed to him, when the saloon’s roar of background noise dulled to a simmering murmur. Missy’s ribbing cut off mid-sentence, her face schooling carefully while Ace’s grew a sickly ashen pallor.

He smelt it first. It was a sharp tang that slapped the back of his neck and had him sucking in a harsh breath before he could stop himself. _Alpha_. More than one, if his nose had anything to say about it. Every Alpha could send out signals via scent, just as Omegas could, but whereas Omegas signals were used typically for comfort, an Alpha’s scent signals were geared a little differently: attention, obedience, _control_. This signal didn’t even have the decency to use the cloak of a scent blocker. It was like being cracked over the head with the blunt end of a pistol. It commanded complete and total attention.

“Who invited the goons down,” Ace’s voice was barely a whisper. Missy clenched her jaw visibly, her knuckles made an audible _pop_.

Jesse hesitated for just a moment before turning slowly to see a pair of rather intimidating men descending the creaky staircase near the back entrance of the building. They wore matching suits, hair slicked back in a professional manner, and they reeked of dominance.

“Evenin’ folks,” the shorter of the two spoke, turning his head this way and that to take in the room, and, in doing so, revealed a rather impressive tattoo of a king cobra stretching along the back of his neck. His voice had a rasp to it that sent chills down Jesse’s spine.

“What can I do for ya’, Snake? Or are ya’ aimin’ to stir up somethin’ tonight?” Doc grumbled over the eerie silence that engulfed his usually chipper bar patrons.

Snake. _How fitting._

Snake snapped his head up to the bartender, a sickly sweet smile gracing his features. His hands rose up in a mock placating gesture. “Ain’t lookin’ to stir up nothin’, Doc. I’ll stay on my best behavior, promise ya’ that.”

Doc looked like he was about to say more, his finely trimmed mustache twitching in the start of a grimace, but the other man that had accompanied Snake beat him to it.

“We’re on strict business from upstairs. My apologies for the disturbance,” his was a low baritone, the kind of sound that floated into your chest and sat heavy in your stomach like warm honey. He gave Doc a quick nod, the bartender seeming to settle marginally now that Snake wasn’t the one talking. He made about going back to his work, wiping down the bar with a tattered rag while the unnamed man took in the room. His gaze scanned the scene thoroughly until he came across Jesse’s small gathering. Ace made a sound akin to a squeak. The man nailed Jesse with a toothy smile, his gold capped right canine now visible. The warm feeling his voice had left Jesse with quickly soured and churned low in his gut.

“There he is. The Kid. We’ve heard an awful lot about you, son. What’s say you join us? It’ll only be a moment of your time,” the words barely left his mouth before Snake was sliding across the floor and up to Jesse’s side, an arm slinging around his shoulders. Jesse had time to send one last glance behind him to Ace and Missy – _who are these people, why do they want me, how do they know me_ – and then the crowd was parting for Snake to lead him forward. He could make out the other man’s rumble as he told the rest of the bar to enjoy their evening, and then Snake was pulling him up and around the tall staircase.

And that’s where Jesse McCree had found himself, praying to every damn deity he could conjure up that his silver tongue would prove true enough to be able to get him through one more night. Scotch, the man with the golden tooth introduced himself as, had accompanied Jesse and Snake after a spell, and proceeded down a hallway into an expensively furnished parlor room. He motioned for Jesse to take a seat, Snake having disappeared at this point, and left shortly thereafter.

The room was dimly lit, but he could make out enough to take a quick stock of his new surroundings. A few bookshelves, volumes out of order and coated in a fine layer of dust ( _clearly decoration only_ ). A matching set of leather recliners in a dark hickory, one with a small tear on its left side that had been hastily patched ( _puncture is the right width for a small knife - the angle would have them on the floor - a scuffle?_ ). A serving cart with a dark copper finish was positioned between the chairs with a wide array of whiskey brands, some emptier than others ( _cleaned glasses stacked on the lower tray, two are dirty_ ). The coffee table immediately in front of him had a glass top, the feet and base a sleek polished wood ( _nicks in the side of the wood closest to the patched chair – tried to paint over it – glass top hasn’t collected nearly enough dirt, not a smudge – replaced, shattered when the table was marked)_. A circular rug decorated with swirling patterns in a rich burgundy and golden accents covered most of the scuffed hardwood floor ( _vacuumed recently – impressions of the previous position of the chairs are still visible_ ). Testing his suspicions, Jesse leaned forward from his seat a hair ( _speckled dark marks stained into the fabric, tried to cover it up with the coffee table – blood never comes out easy_ ).

Jesse dug his fingernails into the plush armrest of the loveseat he was situated in, thumbing the scent blocker patch positioned over his collarbone with his free hand.

_Still there._

He pulled back the collar of his shirt and bent his neck to take a cautionary sniff.

_Nothing._

No matter how many Alpha pheromones Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb out there had been throwing his way during their intimidation tactic, they wouldn’t have been able to scent him as anything other than a Beta. The knot twisting uneasily in his stomach lessened by a fraction, and he took a long, steadying breath through his nose to center himself. However, that raised the question: If they weren’t on Omega snatching duty, what did they want with him anyway? He stayed in line with Deadlock, kept his head down for the most part. He only mouthed off at members he knew could take a few shots, and they’d usually bat them right back; easy banter to build comradery. His most recent job had been a success. Ace and Missy would be able to vouch for him on that one.

His mind was only able to skip back and forth between possible theories on the circumstances that had landed him in the room for so long, and then something in the air shifted. That was the only way McCree could describe the unnerving presence that settled over the room like a thick fog. He felt small. An old memory of a scrawny field mouse darting through the brush near his home surfaced in his mind’s eye. It skittered about as if it were playing without a care in the world.

The floorboards groaned just on the other side of the parlor room’s door. The sharp scents he’d associated with Snake and Scotch when they had first descended the stairs to the bar were back, but much stronger.

_They brought friends._

He thought of the field mouse; thought of the shrill squeak it had let out when a feral cat cornered it.

_Easy prey._


	4. Boss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everyone ‘round here calls me Boss, and I understand they’ve given you a title as well. The Kid,” he rumbled a soft laugh under his breath at the alias, rich like chocolate with a sappy marmalade. It took every fiber of McCree’s being not to sigh into the sound; to bear his neck willingly in submission.
> 
> I want to lick his fucking perfect boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update everyone! Life has been a little nutty this past week, but hopefully (fingers crossed) updates will be on time next week!  
> In the mean time, I'll continue being emotionally compromised by Deadlock lore.

If mannerisms, tone, and overall being of the word Alpha were to be personified in human form, he would live above The High Side and oversee the Deadlock Rebels with a short lead. Jesse had only ever heard of him in hushed whispers, the eyes of everyone in the vicinity of the gossip darting toward the ceiling in anticipation. The stories were all similar in nature, praising his ferocity in the heat of battle and the uneasy calm he exuded in matters of business. They spoke of his whiskey honey voice that rested low in your chest while his razor sharp words danced in your head. He was the first person you’d want to speak with after a successful cargo run, and the last you’d want to see when the outcome of a job was unsavory at best. He was the man everyone aspired to be, and frankly, the one most wanted in their bed at the end of the day. Appropriately, everyone called him The Boss.

 

When the door opened to the old parlor door, McCree immediately snapped to attention; shoulders pushed back, chin high, hands no longer fidgeting but held firmly in his lap. Snake and two women stepped under the threshold first, followed shortly after by Scotch. The two newcomers were all Alphas made obvious by their unblocked scents, though their posturing would have been enough to give them away; commanding auras simmering just under the surface. The four assumed a practiced position against the far wall, arms crossed loosely behind their backs with necks elongated in attention.  Their scents were muddled at best compared to the final man that stepped through the door.

 

It was an all-consuming presence, like looking into the eye of a storm. McCree evened his breathing in hopes that his sight wouldn’t tunnel unexpectedly, swearing he could see crackling bolts of lightning hovering in crisscrossing patterns just at the edge of his vision. The man’s dark locks were strategically mussed in a sharp undercut, a dusting of stubble decorating his high cheekbones that trailed down to his prominent adam’s apple. He wore an impeccably tailored three piece suit, decorative pocket square and all, in stark heather grey that contrasted with the heavy olive tones of his skin. McCree’s eyes wandered along the expanse of the man’s form against his will, resting briefly at the poorly concealed outline at the man’s crotch with a shallow swallow.

 

As if on cue, the man’s harsh gaze was upon Jesse, aquiline nose turning up the slightest. He had a second’s notice to prepare himself before the man had the audacity to level a grin of perfect pearly whites his way, and _god damn_ if Jesse’s heart didn’t fucking soar under the beam of that wonderful, beautiful smile.

 

_What am I, a damn hound?_

 

Oh, but Jesse would be his dog; submissive, compliant, would never hesitate to take an order at a barked command as long as it was from his mouth. He’d bear his belly, bear his fucking _soul_ if it meant he could sit at his feet-

 

_Get a hold of yourself, McCree. This ain’t you talking._

 

“It’s a shame we’re only just meeting now, son. You’ve been climbing through the ranks mighty fast these past few months if what my boys have told me is true,” the man’s voice had a rough edge like crushed glass, but it tapered out on a purr. He moved like a lithe panther, radiating power and control with each practiced step until he was standing above one of the recliners opposite the loveseat McCree was situated in. _The chair with the poorly patched side_ , Jesse’s mind supplied in a daze as his eyes flicked back to the spotted carpet stain.  The man sunk into the chair with a grace Jesse had only ever seen in old timey movies; legs spread fluidly to cross at the knee while leaning the weight of his body on a propped arm. His eyes never left Jesse’s, a heated stare drawing him in closer.

 

_God **fucking** damn it, fuckin’-_

 

“Everyone ‘round here calls me Boss, and I understand they’ve given you a title as well. The Kid,” he rumbled a soft laugh under his breath at the alias, rich like chocolate with a sappy marmalade. It took every fiber of McCree’s being not to sigh into the sound; to bear his neck willingly in submission.

 

_I want to lick his fucking perfect boots._

 

Boss was motioning to one of the other Alphas when Jesse was able to compose himself, albeit barely. Scotch stepped forward, and strode with purpose toward the small serving tray between the matching set of plush armchairs. He quickly retrieved two clean tumblers from the bottom of the cart, and began pouring a generous amount of whiskey into the glasses. Boss accepted one with the hand he had used to gesture, gaze flitting to Scotch briefly with a sincere grin that traveled to his eyes.

 

Jesse could scent the sharp delight the larger man practically radiated at the silent praise as Scotch turned swiftly to face the boy. A monogramed napkin was delicately set down on the glass tabletop before the second drink was placed, Scotch’s balding head nodding lightly before he resumed his previous position standing among the others.

 

Boss inhaled sharply through his nose, letting the whiskey breath just below his chin before taking a calculated sip.

 

“Apologies, Kid, I didn’t ask if you drank,” a slight shake of the head, a sharp _tsk_ between his teeth.

 

The Alpha pheromones Boss was releasing in waves were messing with McCree’s head something terrible. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he made it out of the parlor without blowing his cover of an unassuming Beta. He’d have to dig for some shred of inner calm to stomach through the other man’s onslaught. McCree steeled himself, a brief hesitation before taking the tumbler in hand to mirror Boss. His eyes trailed down to the dark liquid, chancing a taste; strong, woodsy, a pleasant burn that hissed on the way down.

 

_Liquid courage._

 

If he wanted to press on, he’d have to play smart by playing dumb. That’s what Boss’s type reveled in and drew strength from. Let him think he was in charge, perform in his ridiculous power games like a twisted little puppet, then strike when the going’s good.

 

“No apology necessary, Sir,” his gaze traveled back to Boss, head settling to the side as an easy grin spread across his face. McCree was always a good bluff.

 

Boss returned the smile in full, eyes alight and focused on Jesse. “Now I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I had ol’ Scotch and Snake fetch you. You see son, I’m always looking for more members of the company to add to my own personal team, but it’s hard to come by folks such as yourself.”

 

Jesse had to tamper down his jut reaction to sing to the heavens upon Boss’s praise. His free hand clenched loosely, nails biting into the meat of his palm to ground himself. “That’s mighty kind of you to say, Sir.”

 

“Now, now, no need to go getting excited just yet, son,” Boss huffed out on a chuckle, rising from his seat. He took long, confident strides toward the window just on the other side of the parlor room. The glass in his hand was raised to his lips, and he took a long pull of the whiskey as his head turned to survey the gaggle of motorbikes and deadlock members milling about just outside the building. “I have an offer for you, Kid. I want to see if what I’ve been hearin’ about your success from the Rebels lives up to the real thing. It’ll be a test, just like your very first cargo run was. See if you’re worthy enough.”

 

The words “of me” dangled precariously at the end of the man’s sentence. He wanted Jesse, no, he wanted The Kid. He wanted someone quick on his feet and even quicker with his mouth; perhaps in more ways than one. McCree glanced to the other gang members in the room from the corner of his eye. The Boss must have wanted the lot of them as well at some point if he were to take a shot in the dark. The only thing that separated Jesse from the four of them was-

 

“Now I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I’d propose this position to a Beta. I have, on occasion, extended my hand to Betas in the past, but they’ve always left me feeling…” Boss trailed off, head turning slowly back to Jesse. The man’s eyes bore holes through him, gaze trailing down, down, _down_ until it settled at the boy’s crotch; a sly smirk graced his lips. Angry, crescent indents formed on Jesse’s palm where blunt nails dug too sharply.

 

“…Dissatisfied,” Boss drawled, his chest rumbling. “I’d rather like to think I deserve to be satisfied thoroughly, wouldn’t you agree, Kid?”

 

_I could satisfy you._

 

Jesse took a quick shot of his drink once more, the burn forcibly clawing him back to the present, before speaking. “Most definitely, sir,” McCree silently congratulated himself that his voice didn’t warble, and that he remained on the loveseat instead of throwing himself down at the man’s feet.

 

The Boss was smiling again, and for a split second he and Jesse were the only two people in the entire world; soul was singing, soaring somewhere just above The High Side. When he came back he could faintly register the scent shift in his peripheral, the other Alphas having soaked up the man’s smile just as much as McCree had been.

 

_They’d do anything for this man._

 

“That’s what I like to hear, Kid. I’ll have Hawk here run you through the details in just a tick, but for now I reckon a celebration’s in order,” Boss said, downing the remainder of his drink in one go before slamming the empty glass down on the windowsill. He didn’t even have to motion to the pack of Alphas before Scotch was stepping forward again, a glossy pine box in hand this time. With deft hands he popped a latch on the box before presenting it to The Boss, head bowed slightly. Jesse watched as long, slender fingers retrieved a pre-cut cigarillo from the case, Scotch’s free hand rising up with an old-fashioned torch lighter to assist. Boss placed the blunt between his lips, leaning slightly to reach the flame in Scotch’s hand. He took in a long drag, paused briefly, and exhaled a tunneling cloud of smoke into the air. His hooded eyes were trained on Jesse the entire time.

 

_Take me right here on the bloodstained carpet in front of your pack of lackeys._

 

Scotch, head still bowed, stepped back to make his way to the loveseat where McCree was doing his damnedest not to groan under Boss’s intent gaze; skin prickling uncomfortably as his nails dug deeper still into the meat of his palm. Scotch repeated the scene, presenting the case of cigarillos to the boy and supplying a light should he require it.

 

Jesse’s attention snapped back to The Boss when he made a sharp _tsk_ sound around the blunt in his mouth, his head shaking lightly.

 

“Where are my manners today? I’m terribly sorry, Kid. I can assure you I’m not usually this presumptuous. Do you smoke, son?” Boss’s hands had moved to rest easy and loose on his hips, apologetic gaze piercing through curling smoke he had released on a huff.

 

McCree didn’t, but he wasn’t about to let The Boss know that.

 

“I appreciate your concern, Sir. I’m just fine, though. It’s awful kind of you to think of me,” Jesse flashed a practiced smile, attempting to radiate pride and pleasure from his very core. He came back to the opened box, hand hovering momentarily before selecting a cigarillo similar to Boss’s own. Once again, he mirrored the man’s mannerisms, placing the blunt between his lips before accepting the light from Scotch. He took a steady drag once it was lit, savoring the rich, earthy tang, and then he was exhaling a foggy cloud of smoke just as Boss had. He coughed lightly under his breath, earning a chuckle from the window.

 

“To The Kid,” The Boss rumbled, voice taking on a graveled edge from the smoke. “May he succeed, and join our pack.” There was a hushed chorus of various agreements from the other Alphas present.

 

Jesse tried to discreetly clear his throat to suppress another cough around the cigarillo still between his lips. He shifted his jaw around once, twice, and then settled the blunt at the far left corner of his mouth. He found himself chewing at the tobacco lightly as he watched The Boss turn back to face the window, expression unreadable.


	5. Alphas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Scotch ‘s usually busy with the big guy, but the rest o’ us got nothin’ to do but prep ya’ for the heist. Gives us more time to see how you work, n’ you’ll have a chance to see how we work ,” Snake stuffed his free hand into the pants’ pocket of his dark denims, business attire forgone today for a wife beater and tacky silver necklace that shone a harsh glare in Jesse’s face every few steps. The King Cobra tattoo twisting up the expanse of Snake’s neck was more visible without a suit jacket to conceal its gaping maw. The creature’s eyes seemed to track McCree’s with every shift or twitch the man made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! First, I wanted to apologize for how terribly late this chapter update is. Life has been kicking my butt lately, and unfortunately fic writing had to move to the backburner for a little while. I can't make any promises, but I'm crossing my fingers that I'll get another update out within the coming week!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone that has sent me /comments/messages (both here and on tumblr)!! They really lift my spirits up to know you are enjoying my story!! I read every single one, and try to reply as fast as I can <3
> 
> (Also help I'm falling in love with my plot ocs oh no)

After his encounter with Boss, Jesse had shambled back in a daze to the debilitated home he shared with a handful of Deadlock members for some much needed rest. He was stuffing his key into the padlock when he noticed the soft light filtering from underneath the door. Someone had stayed up for him.

 

Sure enough, Missy was at the kitchen table, a chipped mug in hand. Her eyes were immediately on McCree when he entered before darting behind him for a split second to see if he’d been followed. Her shoulders lowered after he double locked the door. She stared into the mug while he pulled up a mismatched chair, metal bottoms dragging harshly against the worn linoleum tile. He made a reach across the table for the drink, which she offered up with a shrug.

 

“What kept you, Kid?” Missy leaned back, the back of the chair creaking as she leveled him with a hard stare.

 

It looked like coffee, black enough that he couldn’t quite tell how much was left in the mug. “Just how I like it,” she had joked once, “Dark, strong, and piping hot. Just like me.” It was her own roast, something fancy she’d get imported every few months; not like the dirt he’d swipe from the corner store. It appeared to be far past lukewarm and edging more on cold at this point. A tentative sip proved Jesse correct. She must have been waiting for some time. He cleared his throat.

 

“Kid-“

 

“He wants me,” Jesse cut her off, voice sharp and eyes trained on the mug in his hands. When his gaze finally traveled up to meet hers, Missy’s expression was unreadable other than the telltale downward tilt of her lips. She readjusted her hips so her prosthetic leg shifted out. A nervous tick.

 

“Kid, that’s… I thought he only took on Alphas. Thought we didn’t have to worry about that,” her voice was steady, but it was obvious she was reeling from the information.

 

We. _Omegas_. One of the few secrets the two had in common. The kind of secrets they’d rather take to the grave than out each other for.

 

“Thought so too, Miss,” he mumbled out, tapping the mug in his hands, “Seems he wants to take a chance on a _Beta_ ,” The word sat heavy on his tongue like tar; something the cold, dark roast wouldn’t be able to cleanse so easy. She exhaled sharply through her nose, displeasure growing more apparent on her features the longer she had time to process. A pregnant pause grew between them, Jesse’s tapping and the soft buzz of the kitchen light hanging above them the only thing to break it.

 

“… But you’re only a kid,” her voice was barely above a whisper. He could see the muscles in her jaw tighten.

 

Like everyone else in the gang, Missy had a past life as well; one she was loathe to speak about too freely. Between shared drinks some many jobs ago, she had wondered aloud if her boy would have grown up to have such a quick tongue as Jesse; if he would have tried to sweet talk his way out of trouble had he only had the chance.

 

McCree saw those thoughts flashing somewhere just behind her steely gaze. He set the mug down.

 

He tried to give her a half formed smirk, “Guess to him I’m just The Kid.”

 

She sighed heavily, shaking her head softly, but there was some light in her eyes at the comment. The chair scraped under her as she stood, ushering him over with an open arm after a moment. He accepted the hug with a smile, leaning into it even though he towered over her by a head or so now. He stayed like that, Missy holding him in their shack of a home, for a good few minutes before a distant mumbling drifted down the hall.

 

“And that would be Ace talkin’ gibberish in his sleep again,” Jesse mused, removing himself from the embrace with a grin.

 

“It’s French, Kid.”

 

“Eh, potato tomato.”

 

“I’m not even going to bother correcting you this time,” Missy hummed, emptying the remaining cold coffee into the sink and setting the mug down with a _tack_ , “You get a pass after the night you’ve had.”

 

He chuckled, saluted to signal his departure, and made his way into the next room where his bed was, or, in this case, a sad excuse for a sofa. The cushions had long since lost their plushness, and there was a spring he had to watch out for somewhere around his pelvis, but it was his nonetheless.

 

“Home Sweet Home,” he huffed under his breath.

 

He shucked down to his boxers and undershirt, setting his hat on top of his shoes before nestling into the mass of scratchy blankets strewn about the old sofa. He watched Missy’s shadow descend the hall after flicking the lights off in the kitchen; focused on the hum of the ceiling fan and the crickets chirping just outside.

 

\---

 

To say he slept lightly was an understatement. It barely felt like he’d had a chance to let his mind digest the events of the previous night before Snake was hoisting him up off the couch, unblocked pheromones bringing him to full alertness. Jesse tried not to think too hard about how easily the other man was able to break into their home.

 

He was lead outside when the sun was still hanging low in pink and orange New Mexico sky. Snake at his side babbled on about how he needed a “proper introduction” to the rest of the team, arm slung loosely around Jesse’s shoulders all the while.

 

“See, you already met ol’ Scotch and me,” Snake’s voice hissed near his ear, using his free hand to flick two fingers up. “Then there’s Hawk and Zero, not counting the Boss man o’ course,” flicked out two more fingers before balling them into a fist. His knuckles popped audibly.

 

“Scotch ‘s usually busy with the big guy, but the rest o’ us got nothin’ to do but prep ya’ for the heist. Gives us more time to see how you work, n’ you’ll have a chance to see how we work ,” Snake stuffed his free hand into the pants’ pocket of his dark denims, business attire forgone today for a wife beater and tacky silver necklace that shone a harsh glare in Jesse’s face every few steps. The King Cobra tattoo twisting up the expanse of Snake’s neck was more visible without a suit jacket to conceal its gaping maw. The creature’s eyes seemed to track McCree’s with every shift or twitch the man made.

 

“Sounds fair.”

 

“Ya’ hungry, Kid?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Snake gestured with a tilt of his chin as an answer, drawing Jesse’s attention up to the building before them. The Panorama Diner looked like your average mom and pop diner on the outside; something built a century ago that had managed to miraculously withstand the tests of time. It was, truth be told, the best place to find delicious, all-American, and artery clogging dishes for miles to come. That it also happened to double as an extension of the Deadlock Rebels cover buildings was simply a coincidence.

 

The smell of sizzling bacon and the clatter of dishes assaulted Jesse’s senses when the doors chimed open. A smattering of late night High Side patrons littered the restaurant, nursing probable hangovers with dark cups of coffee and scrambled eggs. McCree offered a cheeky grin to a few that glanced their way in greeting.

 

Snake steered him to a booth just around the corner that was already occupied by the pair of Alphas he recalled from the parlor room last night. The one on the outside was young, mid-20s he’d guess, and somewhat non-descript save a few freckles spotted high on her cheekbones. The other had her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail, showing off a deep, jagged scar running down the length of her temple only to end somewhere just below her jaw. Their scents were still strong, being unblocked as they were, but the steady thrum of other Deadlock members milling in and out of the building was enough to diffuse them somewhat.

 

As if on cue with his train of thought, the younger Alpha’s scent grew sharply. Jesse’s gaze met with her own instinctually. She sat up straighter in her seat when his attention was on her, eyes bright and searching McCree’s own. Her scent snapped like a whip around her, but there was something… Pleasant about it. It wasn’t meant to be a warning like most sudden influxes in an Alpha’s presence were. _Warm like snickerdoodles fresh from the oven. Ma bundling him in a towel fresh from the dryer._ _Homey_ , his mind supplied.

 

A hand rose to tuck a stray lock of dark auburn hair behind her ear, hesitated only briefly, and then she was offering a small wave; lips twitching upward.

Greetings, hello, _welcome_.

 

Jesse didn’t realize he had stopped walking until her grin widened, a soft laugh bubbling up her chest while urging him forward with her hand. He took his seat clumsily, eyes still focused on the Alpha now across from him in slight confusion, and, if was being honest with himself, awe.

 

“Neat trick ain’t it,” Snake’s voice hummed to his right as the man upended a few pouches of creamer into his coffee. “And ta’ think she wouldn’t o’ figured it out had she stayed on those damn scent blockers.”

 

The girl in question smirked as way of a reply. Then, in quick succession, she tapped her palm to her chest, held her middle and index finger out on both hands while tapping them together, and held up one hand in the shape of an “O”. The use of the Alpha’s scent trick suddenly made much more sense.

 

Jesse let out a low whistle, and attempted to mirror the girl’s first two gestures. However sloppy it may have been, her encouraging nod was enough to spur him forward.

 

He hesitated then, chewing his lip as his hands froze in their previous gesture. His shoulders hunched minutely, leaning toward the man seated beside him.

 

“How do you say kid?”

 

A cough. Jesse’s eyes flicked up, and the remaining Alpha across the table, mercifully, moved her hand in a patting gesture; ruby red lips pulling back into a smile. Snake snorted under his breath, “She knows who ya’ are already.”

 

“Yeah, well my Ma’ taught me you should always be polite to a pretty lady,” Jesse gruffed back, hands repeating that of the other Alpha as a prickling warmth of red crawled up his cheeks. “So sue me.”

 

Zero grinned again, signing something too quick for his eyes to follow. Both Snake and the other Alpha laughed under their breath, whether from Zero’s comment or McCree’s obvious befuddlement he quite wasn’t sure.

 

“She says she’s more than just a pretty lady,” the other Alpha spoke this time, nodding in way of greeting rather than reach across the booth.  “Zero’s our hacker, and I’m the one making sure your asses on the ground don’t get in too much trouble. Name’s Hawk, I’ll be the one with the sniper rifle.”

 

“A pleasure,” McCree grinned, eyes flitting back to Snake who was now leaning on a propped elbow, looking rather bored by the exchange. “What does Snake here do?”

 

The man’s eyes lit up, about to reply, before Hawk cut him off with a quick, “Not much.” She took a long pull from her coffee mug around a smirk to Snake’s indignant rebuttals, Zero making a quick tapping motion with her index and middle finger to her thumb with a smile.

 

These Alphas weren’t much like Boss, not by a long shot. Their interactions reminded him of a handful of others he’d seen inside the closely knit family that was the Deadlock Gang. There was something though - in the sharpness of Hawk’s eyes, the twitch in Snake’s jaw - that kept him on edge; that need to remain vigilant lest he get too comfortable.

 

Zero’s gaze was drawn just behind Jesse, making a motion with her hand. A man he vaguely remembered being introduced to as “Demo” approached the table, coffee pot held firmly in hand. He filled the empty mug in front of Jesse with a deep, rumbling “Mornin’”. If the Alpha’s scents bothered him, he didn’t show it; or rather he’d grown accustomed to it. Maybe it didn’t have to be a bad, taboo thing to go without scent blockers. Jesse glanced back to Zero as she rambled off a series of hand gestures to the woman next to her, scent fluctuating like a lazy tide to accentuate specific words she would sign.

 

Snake had implied she wasn’t able to learn such ability had she worn blockers, as was expected of an Alpha. However, patches were just that; expected, not required. What had Zero been like before this, before Deadlock, before _Boss_?

 

He came back to himself as Hawk quickly rambled off a food order for the table. She paused only briefly to ask McCree if he wanted bacon or sausage links with his order - _Don’t worry about it, Kid. It’s on me._

 

He chanced a sip of the coffee hesitantly as Demo left the booth, thoughts muddied and churning like the hot drink before him.

 

_Boiled dirt, nothing like Missy’s brew._

 

His attention was brought back to the table when Zero’s scent crackled in the back of his throat. _Hot summers in July spent around a bonfire._ _Shared stories parsed between snarky remarks as Ma’s hearty snicker rang loud in his ears._

 

Laughter, togetherness, _family_.

 

Zero was snorting at Snake’s sour expression when Jesse came to from his coffee mug, Hawk nudging the man jokingly under the table with her head held high in in an amusement. McCree took another sip of coffee; wished it was cold and imported.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to:  
> -[Josh](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Revex) and [Kumo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/electroncloudy), my beta team, for helping me through this fic and cleaning up my horrendous typos  
> -[Mama Julie ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/inkatheart)and [Momther](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterixn) for their A+++ clean up and editing skills!!  
> -The McHanzo discord for giving me that little extra push to start publicly submitting stuff for this dumb ship
> 
> -Special shoutout to Ash for this [PHENOMENAL photo edit](http://trashlynns.tumblr.com/post/148305230425/when-will-this-storm-end-by-daximed-all-the)!!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://daximed.tumblr.com/)!!  
> 


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